Friday, May 27, 2011

I can't talk right now. I'm washing sheets and vacuuming floors and even mopping. I know, right? Its just about 10:30 a.m.: nap time...

Thursday, May 26, 2011

I am so lame and Disgusting Part Deux

K from Ed. commented on my last post that we should all admit, anonymously of course, how often we actually wash our sheets and/or our family's sheets compared to how often we think we should wash them. I was game for this until I realized that, even though I admit all kinds of embarrassing things here on this blog (remember the hemorrhoids?) I'm not sure I want to admit this. I will say that I was looking for something on my daughter's bed yesterday and I noticed there was a layer of dust on the upper corner of her fitted sheet. That can't be good.

Okay, fine, twist my arm: I meant to wash my sheets when we came home from Disneyland because the cat had been shedding on them unabated the whole time we were gone, but instead I just used the lint brush to get the hair off, and have slept like a baby ever since.

We got back from Disneyland a while ago...

I hate changing sheets! I love a clean bed, but changing sheets is a pain in the ass. I don't know if it is the same for everyone, but in my tiny bedroom, there is very little space to walk around the bed and tuck everything in, and make it neat, and then the cat gets very curious and decides to nap on what your are trying to fluff, and then I get all sweaty and out of breath because I'm in such terrible shape. I sleep just fine on my nasty sheets, thank you very much.

Oprah gets hers changed every three days. But she's Oprah. I'm surprised she doesn't have them changed every day. I'm surprised she doesn't sleep on a cloud of perfect cleanliness held up by angels who sing her to sleep with soft lullabies, and bring her breakfast on a tray. Did you watch Oprah yesterday? I do love that woman.

Here's the best: Putting freshly washed sheets on the bed, taking a shower (which I have to do after making the bed because of the sweating) shaving your legs, putting on fresh pj's (or no pjs, that's pretty good, too) and then getting into the clean bed. Mmmmm. I think I might go strip my bed right now and enjoy this little vignette tonight.

Or maybe I'll eat some kettle corn and make a few calls...

p.s. The pillow washing TOTALLY WORKED! Its like having a new pillow. In fact, I'm having a little trouble getting used to sleeping on it because it is so crazy fluffy. Here's what I did: Washed the down pillow in cold water and the delicate cycle. Dried it in the dryer on no heat with a clean tennis ball (not tennis shoes, like my mom suggested.) I ran the dryer about six times. Apparently, that was more than enough. I also put my pillow out in the sun because it was so cool to the touch that I thought it was damp. Turns out, it wasn't. I wish I had taken before and after pics, the difference is astounding!

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

I am so lame and Disgusting

I heard this thing recently where this lady said that you should get new pillows every couple of years. Maybe she is a servant of the pillow council or something, but it got me to thinking about my down pillow, and how its been feeling a little flat lately. So when I was with my friend last week, I asked her about her down pillows, and she automatically said, "I know, they're flat, I need new ones." But what I wanted to know is how often she buys new pillows, and she said that hers were a few years old.

I did the math, and here's the thing: The pillow I sleep on now was $80 at Macys when my mom bought it for me before I went away to college. I have been laying my pretty little head on the same, probably dustmite* infested, bag of feathers and dead skin and oil for 23 YEARS!!! I've never washed it. Didn't know you could wash a down pillow, until the internet told me I could.

23 years. I told my mom this, and she gave me permission to buy a new pillow. My husband said, Good God, woman, buy a new pillow. But its my pillow! I love my pillow! I get nervous about hotel pillows when I travel because they might be too hard or soft and they're not the same as my pillow. Of course, I don't worry about the hotel pillow being nasty since I haven't washed my pillow in 23 years so mine is probably nastier than anything Marriott can come up with. Although, now that I'm thinking about it, I don't really want to think about how gross hotel pillows can be...

So, rather than spend money on a new pillow, I washed mine today. It is currently in the dryer on the delicate setting bouncing around with a tennis ball, just like the good housekeeping website told me to do. If it falls apart or doesn't come out good, or the dust mites get angry and carry it away, I will buy a new pillow, but for now, its my beloved pillow and I'm keeping it.

So there.

* Dustmites are a microscopic bug that love California. Everyone here has them, even if they are super clean freaks. They cause lots of allergy problems for me, my husband, my dog, etc. The idea of them is gross, but not as gross as, say, bedbugs.

Monday, May 23, 2011


We had a momentous occasion in our family this weekend. Watch:

Look at my big girl!!!

Friday, May 20, 2011

My New Love

Sorry, sorry, I know, I know; where have I been?  I have a good excuse.  I was in Seattle with my new  boyfriend, Reed.  He has no teeth, thin hair, chicken legs and weighs 8 pounds.  I am super in love with that guy!

Turns out, managing a newborn baby is like riding a bike.  I did it nine years ago, and it all came flooding back.  Not scary, not agitating, its just a baby, not a space ship.  Even getting up with him in the middle of the night was a total joy.  He has cheeks like hamburger buns!  And the best part was that when his little butt turned into a cannon and shot poop across the kitchen, I wasn't his mother so I could just walk outside for some air and let her clean it up!  I think grandmother-hood is going to be awesome. 

Also, my friend, Reed's mother, lets me boss her around.  I love to tell people how to run their lives, and she was just exhausted and anxious enough to let me.  Normally, I am pretty good at boundaries, but they went out the window, and I openly mocked her foolishness while doing things my way, and then she thanked me. Can you believe that?

Now I'm home.  My mom asked me if I would want to have another baby, and the answer is no.  I would gladly take my Reed for a 24-hour period each week, but I don't want to have to do all the other stuff, like potty training, preschool fundraisers, piano recitals, etc.  God, potty training sucks.  It still makes me excited when I hear L go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.  Its just amazing to me that she ever learned to do that!  I have a neighbor who told me when we were in the thick of the potty training, that one day she would be 12 and I would say to myself, "Can't you just shit your pants again?"

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


Yesterday was rough parenting day, man.  Woof.  Starting with the Mother's day snub, moving on to the crazy-mom yell-a-thon, and then, after school, when I expected contrition and apologies, because that's what usually happens, we continued to fight. 

She should really be a scorpio instead of a capricorn.  We were trying to talk things out and get to the bottom of why she was being so vile, and all she could say was, "I'm just a BAD KID!  I have no SELF CONTROL  at all!  I'm just bad!"  which drives me crazy because I feel manipulated into making her feel better about herself while I'm mad at her.  So we talked and talked, and then she devised punishments for herself that I didn't think were warranted, but I also think she knew I wouldn't take her up on them. 

I told her no playdates for the week, and she was pissy about that, so she spent the afternoon in her room listening to her infernal audiobooks.  She emerged at dinner time, and was just as sullen and rude as ever!  Folks, this is unprecedented.  Usually, we have a fight, I yell, she sees the error of her ways and cries and apologizes, and then we talk and hug it out and we move on with our lives.  Luckily, I'd informed Rob earlier in the day that we had to be a united front against the rudeness because normally he's the good cop and I'm the bad cop.  He'll be all "Sweety, honey, mommy and daddy just want you to behave, okay sweetie, honey, bunny?" while I want to scream in her little face.

We sent her to bed without letting her read, and she cried and I watched with a sympathetic look on my face, and explained that mothers and daughters fight, and that this was only the beginning, and it was normal and okay.  Then we hugged, and she finally -FINALLY - went to sleep.

This morning she was better and I was better, and we were better and I'm relieved.  I was totally distracted and exhausted and sad yesterday.  This and hemorrhoids?  Seriously?

Monday, May 9, 2011

Mother's Day Effing Sucks

For all of you readers who have little babies or even have shrieking toddlers, this is what you have to look forward to:

Please tell me exactly what drug my daughter was on when she wrote me this Mother's Day poem:

Ode to Mom

Ode to my mom, who is nice as a tulip.  (so far, so good)
You are as elegant as a polar bear. (wha?)
You are as sweet as a square.
You are as light as a cloud.
You remind me of Texas full of love.
You like shrimp, your favorite meat. (true...)
You remind me of fall, so colorful.
You're good at cooking everything. (says the girl who eats nothing.)
I love going to museums with you. (?)
Thank you for being great.

I know I shouldn't be snarky about this.  I know I'll probably go to hell for it, but COME ON! I remind her of Texas?  What the fuck?

Then, I asked her on Sunday if there was anything she wanted to say to me, and she went in her room and wrote this:

Followed this morning by, "I'm so glad Mother's Day is over."  as if ALL THE EFFORT (none) that she put into Mother's Day was simply exhausting. 

That last comment put me over the edge this morning and I gave her what for and froze her out all the way to school.  Little shit.

Friday, May 6, 2011

Its a Lame World

I want to talk just a little more about Disneyland, specifically, A Small World.  The last time we went to Disney, L was 5, and we went on that ride about 7 times.  She loved it, so I loved it, and I was able to use feelings of parental loveyness to cope with listening to that song over and over. 

A few years ago, there was a news story that they were having to rehab the small world ride because Americans were getting so fat that the little boats were bottoming out in the canals.  That's the first thing.  Then, there's the fact that as you go by some of the larger sets, you can see that they are plywood and in your mind you can see the carpenter using his jigsaw and paintbrush to create that glacier. 

But here's the part that gets me every time: On the other Disney rides, like Pirates and Alice in Wonderland and stuff, the inside is lit and decorated with Disney magic so you can't see the ceiling.  This doesn't seem like a big deal because you're not supposed to be staring at the ceiling when you're on these rides, but Pirates of the Caribbean is, like, 13 minutes long, and on the third time it gets a little old, so you start looking past the pirates and wenches at the walls and ceiling and how they make the fire, and you can't suss out any of the magic tricks!  Its completely seamless, except for the occasional exit sign.

Small World, not so much.  All I can look at when I'm on that ride is the ceiling!  You can clearly see the acoustic ceiling tiles and you are constantly reminded that you are not in a fantasy land but in a cinder block box that should be found in an office park.  Its so distracting!  At least on the other rides you can suspend disbelief a little bit, but on Small World you just feel like a loser riding around in a little boat through a flooded warehouse of mardi gras props.  I expect more from Disney.

The best part of that ride this time was that once was enough for L.  In fact, at the end of the ride, she said, out loud, what we all feel when we finally exit: "God, that song is annoying."

Monday, May 2, 2011

What We Do for our Children

This past week, we went to southern California to go to Disneyland.  We went for two days, about 14 hours on our feet each day.  The first day L did not want to go on many rides and Rob didn't feel well, and it was hot and more crowded than I thought it would be.  The second day there was nothing Leila wouldn't go on, and it was super fun. It cost a couple hundred bucks for L to ease into things, but this is not what the title of this post is referring to.

What I am referring to in the title, the sacrifices that we make for these ankle biters, is not the endless days spent at theme parks, or the day-long car trips to get to these theme parks; I'm talking about hemorrhoids.

If you have ever been pregnant, you know that hemorrhoids are an almost inevitable byproduct of this most feminine state.  Lucky is the woman who gives birth without having to deal with one of these little honeys.  After I gave birth, that whole area burned like a mother-effer, but it was the hemorrhoid, not the other thing, that was giving me the most trouble.  If you are one of the lucky people out there who has never experienced a hemorrhoid, via pregnancy or a diet devoid of fiber, allow me to 'splain:  It feels like you have a triangular tortilla chip stuck in your corn hole (no maize pun intended.)  TMI?  Okay, moving on.

Normally, my little friend is very manageable and I spend very little time thinking about him (because you know something this irritating is male.)  But for some reason, on this trip, my bowels were acting very strangely indeed, and that tortilla chip was extra salty.  I hadn't brought any of my miracle witch hazel pads with me, since I hadn't anticipated any problems, but I spent a few days (yes, DAYS) debating whether to go to the local CVS and stock up.

Unfortunately, there is no CVS at Disneyland, and that was where I was when I just couldn't take it anymore.  I was walking funny, and was very distracted and unhappy.  So this is what I did.  I started by making Rob ask a popcorn vendor where one might go for an embarrassing personal problem.  He directed us to the first aid station, which is really like a little urgent care unit right behind Main Street.   There were some girls getting bandaids for the blisters on their feet, and a mom holding a feverish toddler with an ear infection (I felt for that mom, too.  In addition to her probable hemorrhoid, she had come all the way from Canada to sit in a hotel room with a cranky, sick baby.) And then there was me.  I asked the nice lady behind the counter if she had any hemorrhoid medication.  I died inside a little.  She said, no, but she called some other place and they had some Preparation H.  She directed me to a coffee shop further up Main Street.  Why A coffee shop has this particular thing and the first aid station doesn't is beyond me.

So I went up to the coffee shop and asked if this was the Market House, and the nice Disney lady said yes, what could she help me find, and here's how it went:

Her: "Are you looking for something in particular?"
Me: "Its too embarrassing."
Her: "Deodorant?"
Me: "No, worse."
Her: "That time of the month?"
Me: "Even worse.  I need some prprshun H."
Her: "Oh, sure, we have that!"

Bless that woman for being discreet and relaxed and not mocking me.  I'm sure she mocked me later with her friends, but who can blame her?   It was $11.91, and I had exactly $12.  Thank God.

The nearest bathroom was between Frontierland and Adventureland, and that was where I was further humiliated, even though I was alone in a stall.  By the time I stepped off the Jungle cruise a little while later, I was a new woman.  Thank you, Disneyland, and you're welcome, Leila.

I would also like to take this opportunity to welcome the long-awaited and much exalted arrival of Little Reed, who hopefully did not leave any hemorrhoids behind, and who will bring tons of love and joy and trips to theme parks to his wonderful and deserving parents.  Congratulations!